ONE OCTOBER DAY

By

META SCHOOLEY LAWS

              “What is more rare than a day in June?” asks the poet. Perhaps an October day when the sun, shining through the filmy grey-blue mist that envelops the landscape, bring out the glories of the autumn woods, when the drowsy south breeze lays its spell on mother earth, so completely that the dropping of a nut to the ground by the busy little squirrels makes a noise; when the luscious grapes on vine, and rosy cheeked apples in the orchard invite. June, the month of roses; the month of promise beautiful indeed.

             “Then, if ever, come perfect days.” But October, whose beauty is that of fulfilled hopes, of the completed work of Nature and her assistants, she, too, makes good her claim as June’s closest rival.

             Fortunately, the great plowing match was favored with one or two real October days.

             We took advantage of one of them, in the early morning, for the drive was a long one, and one ought not to hasten on days like this. Some folk drive as though speed was the only thing to enjoy!

             Lundy’s Lane-and the international plowing match.

             Side by side the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes floated, so close that often the breeze entwined their folds.

             Side by side the cars of American and Canadian officials were parked.

             Out in the fields, wearing the same uniform, the khaki overalls, once again in Lundy’s Lane, representatives of the two nations strove for mastery. But, today it would seem that here, at least, was the partial fulfillment of ancient prophecy, for “their swords were beaten into plowshares.”

             Later in the afternoon we drove up the Boulevard to note the progress in the construction of the peace bridge-a fitting closing of the day.

             Surely “peace hath her victories.” May no cloud ever shadow the amity which pervades the two nations: each with a great destiny to fulfill; one forging alone; the other one of a great sisterhood of nations blended in the world encircling British Empire. Yet together representatives of the Anglo-Saxon race charged with a great task of bearing what Kipling called “The white man’s burden.”

             But the plowing match-

             Some of men wondered dubiously whether they would ever have gotten their acres ready for seed had match methods been pursued.

             But in the main, the crowd seemed to regard the work of the contestants as a demonstration of plowing, as a fine art. One woman remarked that this plowing bore the same relation to everyday work as embroidery bears to our sewing.

             In the big tents, one traced the development of farm machinery, the sickle, scythe and cradle, mower, reaper, binders; the old wooden plows, and the big tractors and all the steps between; the flail and the complete individual threshing outfit; the up-to-the-minute silo filler.

             The attention of the crowd was quite evenly divided between the plowing and machinery exhibits.

             Then the hydro tent was very interesting, though most farm women, men also, regarded the machinery wistfully.

             Why do not more farm people install hydro? my city sister asked; and someone behind us answered the question: Because the whole province pays for Toronto’s hydro.

             Put hydro on a flat rate basis and see then what would happen.

             “Huh,” said a pompous looking individual near, “that would mean the ruination of Toronto.”

             “Possibly,” chimed in someone else, “but it would also mean industrial development in smaller centres, Welland, Niagara Falls and their ilk.”

             But we didn’t wait for the rest of this “political” discussion, for we wanted to see Jesse Morningstar and his oxen. So did others. The crowd pressed so close that the patient beasts had scarcely room to walk. They drew the plow almost without effort.

             We were disappointed just a wee bit, because the animals had collar and hames and bridles. They were hitched to a 1926 plow-just a wee bit incongruous. We had seen oxen working, but the young folk who had accompanied us had not.

             On our return the man drew a picture of the yoke and explained how one animal was trained to stand for it to be placed on his neck and the other to come under at the word.

             It so happened that he had driven the last yoke of oxen in these parts, big red and white animals weighing 2600 lbs. each. Their arched horns were about two feet long. When he came into town with grain, all the children climbed on the wagon or sleigh and rode to the warehouse. Those children are grown men and women now-for that was thirty years ago, or more. Our young guests scented a story, and waited.

             I was just thinking said “the man” of the time when we had the engine for the first time to thresh our grain. Those engines were drawn by horses and some of the grain was stacked in the middle of the field we had plowed to be resown. The team got stuck in the soft ground, couldn’t draw the thing another inch, so I went for the oxen, Buck and Bright. The thresher said, “go on, but they can’t budge it, either.” Well, we unhitched the team and hitched the oxen with heavy chain traces. Then the thresher blew the whistle shrilly and the oxen having never heard such a fearsome noise before, gave one leap. The thresher jumped off the engine and rolled out of the way. Every man gave the frightened plunging beasts a wide berth as they galloped across the field, dragging the engine behind them. Then they got to the fence they leaped it; the tracts broke from the whittletree; the engine rolled on its side. The oxen were stopped one on each side of a big tree in the next field.

             But no one ever doubted again that those oxen could draw.

             What became of them at last? and almost sheepishly he confessed that they ended up in a butcher’s stall. Beef was low then, but the two brought nearly $300.-a lot of money in those days.

             If the writer is correctly informed, Jacob Perlet drove the last yoke of oxen in Humberstone Township. They were not a matched yoke as were Buck and Bright of the story above, but perfectly trained and reliable.

             But “the old order changeth.” Few indeed of the farm boys and girls of today ever saw oxen work.

             Cradling grain is a lost “art” and Dame Rumor says that many of our young farmers could not make and tie a band.

However, there are many things they can do and the farm is, as he was, and must be, the mainstay of the nation-yes, of the world.

The Welland Tribune and Telegraph

21 October 1926